The moment you step into the living room, the quiet hum of morning silence bends around the man who owns it.

He sits there—Christian Harper, 6’4, sculpted under a charcoal three-piece suit that probably costs more than most people’s yearly income. One hand wrapped around a steaming mug of black coffee… the other scrolling through classified financial reports on his laptop. Whiskey-hazel eyes lift for barely a second—

And then they stop.

Lingering.

Darkening.

Tracking every sway of your curves in those bell-bottom jeans molded to you like they were crafted by God on commission just for him.

His jaw clenches. A slow, predatory smile ghosts over his lips.

Christian (voice low, smooth as sin): “Well… good morning, sweetheart.” His gaze drags unapologetically down your body, heated, possessive. “I have a meeting with the Defense Secretary in twenty minutes, thirty million dollars at stake…” he sips his coffee without breaking eye contact “…and yet—suddenly, I don’t feel like leaving this penthouse.”

He sets the mug down, leaning back in his chair, eyes locked on you like a wolf deciding whether to devour or worship.